


Retrograde

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate version of 170, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Memory Loss, Nothing worse than what was in the episode, Self-Hatred, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Case ########-10: A statement on the loneliness of one Martin Blackwood. Audio recording by the Archivist, in situ.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 67





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> Man, 170 fucked me up so bad that I felt like I had to do Something, so I rewrote it as a regular Jon statement. Hope you enjoy (reading it in Jon's voice helps).

Martin Blackwood is alone. His house is gargantuan and, strangely, full of fog. Or--how could he possibly afford a house like this by himself? Does he even have a job? Coworkers? Someone to care how his day was? Surely he must have roommates, but there is just...fog. Silhouettes push it aside time to time, it seems, but his eyes might be playing tricks on him. 

It’s so hard to see. How does fog even get into a house like this? Did he leave the windows open? He’s the only one around, the only one to blame. He wonders why he can’t remember, but then he forgets what exactly he’s forgotten. The chair he’s sitting in is uncomfortable, but he knows--well, he  _ thinks  _ he looked for another one.

How can he afford this? His new job, probably. The one he lied to get. The one with the odd, abrupt, frightening interview and the--the uh--the boss he immediately fell...in love...with. 

Love. He’s in love.

_ (Jon _ .  _ Jon, where are you?) _

Here, Martin, I’m--

Martin Blackwood is alone. There is no boss to have a crush on. There are no friends to get drinks with. There is no loving mother to hold him. No father to ask for advice. Love hasn’t been a part of his life since he was a child, if then. 

He feels as if he’s swallowing the fog. He was thinking about his mother…? Yes. His mother. She loves him, he knows she must, but it’s hard to believe when one of the few things the fog hasn’t taken is the cold apathy in her eyes when she looks at him. 

There is  _ no one _ and  _ nothing _ . His life is a barren wasteland. He wishes he had a comfortable chair. A cushion, at least. The man Martin loves tells him he’s an excellent cushion.

Wait, but he’s alone. There is no man to love. Except--

( _ Jon. Please. Help me.) _

I’ll be there as soon as I--

Martin. Blackwood. Is. Alone. He is alone, and a liar, and a talentless poet to cope. How could anyone expect his mother to love him, the boy that threw away the name and identity she handed him, the boy who never did anything impressive except shrink out of existence? 

He should never have been born, but here he is. The fog seems cold and taut around his skin, pulling tighter and tighter. 

Does he really think the man he loves would love him back?

Martin--I do--you know I do--

Why would he? What possible reason? Martin is  _ nothing _ ,  _ no one _ , a fuckup who hates himself even after reconstructing himself completely. He can’t even lie his way into being a person he likes. No surgery or shot could make him like himself.

Jon is radiantly passionate and  _ fucking  _ weird and beautiful in an unselfconscious way and he speaks like an elaborately carved-up thesaurus. What interest--what  _ use _ could he possibly have for a sack of fucking--fucking  _ fog _ like Martin?

The fog is thick and heavy. Martin wants to go  _ home _ except he doesn’t know where home is and...he  _ is _ home. This is his home. He lives alone. With the uncomfortable chairs  _ he  _ must’ve bought, and the fog coming through the windows  _ he  _ must’ve left open. He’s such an idiot.

Where would home even be, if it weren’t here? He’s never had anywhere that felt safe and warm enough to be a home. His mother sucks the warmth out of the bones of any house, and living on his own is just as cold.

If he had a home, it would be somewhere he could hold someone he loved and drink tea and not have to worry about...being alone. In a house full of fog. Wondering if the man he loves really did abandon him here, forever.

( _ Don’t leave me, Jon _ .)

I would never. I love--

It’s so foggy. It’s like he’s on the moors, like one of those regency romances. Except there’s no dashing young man waiting for him to stumble out of the fog and propose to him or just desperately try to hold his hand. 

He read books like that a lot in uni. For class, mainly. They just made him feel so supremely unloved, so  _ alone _ . He...well, he  _ is _ alone, so it makes sense he’d feel that way, doesn’t it? He wishes he had a cup of tea, but the fog is impenetrable, and he doesn’t feel like he knows the place well enough to find the kitchen blind. Except--this is  _ his _ house and he lives here, so--did he just move in? He must’ve just moved in.

Right, he probably moved here when he got that job. The weird one. Does he still work there? God, what are his hours? Should he be there? He has no idea what time it is.

Not...that it matters. Not that anyone would notice his absence. Certainly not his boss, who scowls at him and sighs an  _ I’m busy  _ every time he tries to reach out and be nice. Certainly not his coworkers who are baseline pleasant to him but ultimately care about each other more than they ever will about him. 

He will never be anyone’s number one priority. He can probably take the day off. He could probably take the rest of his  _ life _ off, and no one would notice. If he died here in the fog, no one would care. It’d probably be weeks before they found his body. Probably he wouldn’t even get in the news for it.

He’s scared he’s going to die here, suddenly. Scared to die all alone, with no one and nothing except the running tape recorder in his hand to hold. The fog is so thick around him, crushing in on his ribs. He can’t even remember why he keeps living. Why he hasn’t just given up already.

No. No, no, no, he knows. He knows. The fog can’t take this away from him. He won’t let it.

( _ Jon. Jon. Jon! _ )

He knows why he’s alive. He’s alive because he fucking deserves to be. Because he’s a good person and because he loves someone so viciously it hurts to breathe, and that makes it worth it. He’s not alone. Jon loves him. Deserved or not, it doesn’t matter, because he  _ knows _ it. He  _ knows _ that Jonathan Sims fucking loves him and having the love of someone that incredible is--

_You’re_ incredible, Martin--

Martin Blackwood isn’t alone, but he  _ is _ lonely, and the fog only thickens. The light he shone through it will only last so long, and then he will be alone again. 

End--end statement, I...Martin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-- _ fuck _ .

This--this is a lesson in monstrosity, an ego-stroke, proof that the Eye deserves to be a terror just as much as the rest. It forced me to watch and consume and  _ enjoy _ the suffering of the person I love most, I--I am  _ sorry _ , Martin.

I need to find him. I need to find him before it’s too late. I--I just  _ stood  _ here. I just--

End recording.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, all feedback is appreciated<3  
> I'm on tumblr @witnesstotheend, come say hi.


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